


Dirty Laundry

by luchia



Category: Once Upon a Time (TV)
Genre: F/M, Laundry goddesses
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-11-24
Updated: 2012-11-24
Packaged: 2017-11-19 10:53:42
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,457
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/572489
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/luchia/pseuds/luchia
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It’s hard to be caretaker of a rather large estate and its associated Dark One when you don’t know a damn thing about cleaning.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Dirty Laundry

It takes about two days for Belle to realize she's in trouble. It takes Rumplestiltskin four days, since he finally decides to duck behind a curtain and look out of a window and where he expects dusty glass he finds a mud-smeared pane of glass. And then he tries to pick a shirt out of the newly-done laundry and finds himself holding a puckered piece of stained brown fabric and thread that probably used to be silk and lace but just looks sad now.

"You really have no idea how to clean, do you," Rumplestiltskin tells her over the table. Tea, at least, she can manage, and he's grateful to see she hasn't tried another batch of laundry or to do much more than dust. Even that he's sort of nervous about letting her do.

"I've never cleaned before," Belle confesses, looking so sincerely apologetic that Rumplestiltskin has to admit that, well, she's trying, and her side of the bargain is still met, even if she's awful at it. Why exactly did he pick a bookworm noblewoman again? "I'll get better, I swear."

"Or you could learn how to clean and spare my poor clothes," Rumplestiltskin says, and has a horrible, wonderful idea. It'll certainly be entertaining. "I think I'll be fetching you a tutor."

Belle frowns. "Really?"

"Oh yes," Rumplestiltskin says, and can't help it. He giggles, because this is going to be _amazing_.

-

Belle's only been in the Dark Castle for a week and a half, but it's still jarring to see someone other than Rumplestiltskin. The woman is wrinkled and hard and tanned from sunlight and sweat, wearing a deep green dress, and seems completely unimpressed with Belle. "I'm to teach you to clean, I hear," the woman says, putting down the basket of clothing she's holding against her hip.

"Are you the... the tutor?" she asks, since it seems the most polite way to ask who the hell this woman is.

"Name's Clotha," the woman says, and picks the basket back up as she strides right into the castle, movements tight and efficient. "I'm not to be trifled with, girl. When I ask a question, answer truthfully and completely. Never comment on what I wash, or anything in the basket, or why I always carry it. Now, let's start with these God-awful floors, I can barely stand on them with all this grime."

Belle glances down at her feet. They're not just bare. They're webbed.

"Then let's start there," Belle says, and smiles at Clotha.

She looks impressed. Belle wonders if she's one of those people who equates inexperience with stupidity. "Right then. Fetch some brooms, cloths, buckets, and a fuck ton of vinegar, and lemons if you have some."

They dust the floor, first. And then they coat it in lemon-flavored vinegar and wipe it clean. It takes hours, but when they're done Clotha looks satisfied and, despite the aches and rawness of her skin, Belle is incredibly proud of herself.

"You could eat off this floor now, girl," Clotha says, and considers Belle. "Do you actually want to learn how to clean?"

"I want to fulfill my part of the bargain, and do it well, so I suppose so," Belle says, shrugging. "It's not what I wanted to do with the rest of my life, certainly, but I don't mind it. It might grow on me."

"Good answer," Clotha says, and moves back to where she'd set her basket on the large table. "I'll see you later, Belle. Got some washing of my own to do. And for heaven's sake, find something more practical to wear."

When Rumplestiltskin comes home, Clotha is long gone and Belle is absolutely filthy in her ruined yellow dress and so proud of her floors that she's beaming at him when he tromps into the room wearing boots she has no doubt are intentionally coated in mud.

"Oh dear, now all that hard work that took you hours and hours is ruined," Rumplestiltskin sighs, pouting as he tromps across the carpet and kicks his feet up on top of the table. "You must be heartbroken."

Belle gives him a puzzled look. "It's _your_ floor."

He proceeds to sulk for the rest of the night and demands an incredibly complicated dinner. Since cooking is one thing Belle can actually manage, she does as commanded. That just seems to make him even more frustrated, and he leaves without eating half of it after mocking her hair for no reason whatsoever.

But he never wears intentionally muddy boots around the Dark Castle again, either.

-

Clotha next appears after Rumplestiltskin throws a fit over laundry again. It's a justified fit, though, and Belle is immediately grateful for Clotha and her endless (refreshingly logical) irritation and basket full of washing and mysteries.

"You don't even touch the lace for - just - _no_ ," Clotha says, snatching yet another shirt from Belle's hands. Clotha is very passionate about laundry. "Let's start with something easy for you. Like this rag. You might make it up to handkerchiefs today, if you're lucky."

Belle is proud to say she makes it up to bedding and tablecloths in two days, and even Rumplestiltskin seems impressed that she gets to do everything but lace and silk within four days of Clotha's appearance. Ironing and pressing sheets seems a little excessive to her, but considering the shock and horror on Clotha's face when she commented on that, Belle is willing to go the extra mile.

It's during a lace tutorial ("Always wash by hand with no magic or machines involved, repeat it five times for me Belle, _always by hand_.") that Belle sees inside Clotha's laundry basket, and immediately wishes she hadn't. It's nearly full, the cloth inside covering every size and shape of clothing that Belle can imagine, and all of it covered in blood. She also doesn't miss the severed hand peeking out from behind a little girl's sunshine yellow dress.

Clotha knows she notices, immediately, since Belle freezes up entirely. Any bit of friendly rapport vanishes instantly, and the other woman says very, very quietly, "You remember what I told you when we met."

Belle is smart enough that she doesn't even nod. She simply turns away from the basket, nerves constricting her throat, and looks Clotha in the eye. "You were saying about the lace?"

"Good girl," Clotha says, webbed feet tapping on the stone beneath, and their lesson goes on. "Are you satisfied with the deal you've made?"

"I am, actually," Belle says. "It was a fair bargain, and I'm glad I could save my loved ones. I don't regret it at all."

Two days later, Belle is dubbed acceptably proficient, and Clotha and her basket of horror disappear once more.

When she presents Rumplestiltskin a neat stack of impeccably washed, pressed, and folded clothes, he actually looks impressed. "Well, if she could teach you anything, it'd definitely be this," he says.

Belle hesitates, but asks, "Who exactly is Clotha?"

"She's herself, of course," he replies. "The question is _what_. And I'm not sure you want to know."

"I am," Belle says. "Ignorance is never helpful."

Rumplestiltskin looks impressed. Again. Belle wonders if she might actually get to have a bed soon as a reward. "She's a _Kanerrezed Noz_. Or _Bean Nighe_. Or she's the midnight washerwoman. Really, it all comes down to being the creature that washes clothing for the dead or dying and kills people who interfere."

Belle nods. "And she's teaching me to clean?"

"That's right, dearie," Rumplestiltskin says, incredibly pleased with himself. "Enjoy learning to be a housekeeper from a goddess of death and slaughter. It's a rare opportunity."

"She's a good teacher," Belle says, and smiles at him. "Thank you for telling me."

"You aren't afraid of her?" he asks. Belle can't tell if he's disappointed or confused. Probably both.

"I know the rules, and she's never hurt me," Belle replies, honestly. "Besides, she can't help her nature. Ogres kill, maids clean, and the midnight washerwoman is devoted to the clothes of the dead. Really, I'm grateful that I have such an expert for a tutor. It's hard to get more qualified than Clotha, don't you think?"

He smiles very slowly, like he's trying to restrain it but the urge is just to powerful. "You really are a funny girl."

"Says Rumplestiltskin," Belle points out, and leaves before he can manage to get the last word. It's hard to be scared of someone when you've see them throw an indignant tantrum over the inflating price of straw.

That night, she finds the door to her 'room' now leads to an actual bedroom. She tries to not be touched and find it oddly heartwarming that he's decided she gets an actual bed, and fails.

-

The next week, Clotha is back for two days, the first day for carpets and tapestries and drapes, and the second (finally) for windows. The next week, Belle starts feeling herself proficient enough to try cleaning the most important room in the castle. She tries to open the drapes in the great hall, watching Rumplestiltskin out of the corner of her eye as he spins more gold than anyone could ever spend.

It doesn't go as planned.

Belle's been in the Dark Castle for a little over one month, and after today, she's starting to realize she might be in more trouble than ever.

-

Clotha's back two weeks later to teach Belle how to take care of the small tasks - basic mending, polishing wood and silver, advanced dusting. Belle actually feels confident with cleaning, which is refreshing and more than welcome. What isn't welcome is that the minute Clotha walks through the kitchen door, she takes one look at Belle, drops her basket, and points a firm finger in Belle's face as she says, " _No._ "

Belle frowns. "I didn't-"

"Don't give me that, girl, it's written all over you and you're smart enough to know what's going on," Clotha accuses. "I can tell when someone's got dirty laundry and it's all over you."

She flushes, but she is going to learn to polish silver if it kills her. Which it very well might, but Belle has a job and she's going to do it. "It's not like I can't control myself, Clotha."

"It's not your control I'm worried about, here. In a world of bad ideas, _that_ one is emperor," the washerwoman says, but relents, pulling out a sponge and baking soda from the supply closet and sitting her down at the kitchen table with forty candelabras. Belle grabs the single gold one, which usually graces the great hall. "Maybe exposure is the problem. You just need more options."

"That's not the problem, no," Belle says quietly, and concentrates on polishing the luminary hunk of metal more than anyone ever has and probably will. "It's just him."

When the silence reaches a length that no level of avoidance could ever ignore, Belle looks up from her favorite candelabra and gasps, because Clotha doesn't quite look like Clotha anymore. She's still wearing a deep green dress, but it's an elegant cut silk number that leaves little to the imagination about the perfect curves of her body. Her face is that rare blend of breathtaking beauty and approachability, and her dark brown hair cascades down her back in wind-swept waves. Her eyes, a dark green rivaling her beautiful dress, watch Belle intently.

Her heart skips a beat, but there's no urge to touch, no desire to know anything and everything about the incredibly attractive woman in front of her. Belle doesn't feel like she wants to hold this new version of Clotha close and say _mine_ and force the whole world to accept it.

The new Clotha tilts her head to the side, a rogue lock of hair brushing against her collarbone as she observes Belle. "I've never had any washing of yours before. Why Rumplestiltskin, of all people?"

Belle wants to ask what Clotha means, but answers instead. Honestly. "I don't really know," Belle admits, considering the question. "I've never had more fun talking to someone in my entire life. He treats me like a person, even if that doesn't mean he treats me well. He makes me laugh." She pauses. "He respects me. I don't think I've ever had someone respect me before."

"That can't be all of it," Clotha says, but it sounds like a warning.

Belle shrugs. "Gratitude was the start of it, and then I enjoyed his company, and the more time we spend together the more fascinating he is. And he's not an ugly man."

"Rumplestiltskin isn't a man. He's an imp," Clotha states.

"Maybe I like that sort of thing," Belle muses. Except she's fairly certain she doesn't, so she shakes her head. "I'm attracted to the man _inside_ the imp, then. Is that a good enough answer?" When Clotha nods, Belle decides to risk it and asks, "What did you mean, earlier?"

"Humans aren't the only things that die," Clotha says, and stands up with an elegant swish of green skirts to reach into her basket. "Hope, dreams, even love. If it can be ripped to shreds and leave you screaming bloody murder, I've washed it."

Belle can't ask for any specifics, not without breaking Clotha's rules, so she carefully says, "I always like learning more."

"Good girl," Clotha says, smirking, and reaches into her basket to pull out a tattered blue baby blanket, bloodstained. "This is a woman in Riverdale's dream of children." She reaches in again, pulling out first a handkerchief with initials embroidered on it, and then a bridal veil. "Love, and the hope of a marriage." Clotha smirks, bringing the veil closer to show Belle the small yellow flowers embroidered on it, stained orange from blood. "This is Gaston's, actually. No love to go with it, though. _You_ , I have nothing for, not even hope for a normal life away from all of this."

"I've never been a particularly ambitious person," Belle says.

"You definitely haven't," Clotha says, and turns back to stuff the clothing back in. Belle does her best to ignore the squelching sound that accompanies it. "But you _have_ survived washing with me for an entire month, answered all three of my questions honestly, and followed every rule I set before you. So, you get a present."

The next garment out of the basket is an exquisite cloak, beige and green and patterned like falling leaves. Belle gasps, but doesn't dare to touch it. Even more remarkable is that there's no blood on it.

" _This_ hasn't died yet," Clotha says, and folds the cloak carefully before putting it on the large wooden table. "It's your dream of adventure and exploration, of seeing the world. It's been damaged enough that I can grab hold of it, but it doesn't belong to me quite yet. Wear it, and you might actually get your chance."

"Thank you," Belle says, gaping at the fine cloak. When she finally touches it, it's a soft yet durable fabric Belle couldn't dream of identifying. "I don't know what to say."

"Say nothing, then. Less chance I'll slaughter you that way," Clotha says. "You know enough about cleaning to get yourself by. My side of the bargain is met, so heaven help you if you _do_ see me again."

Belle frowns, but nods. "Thank you for everything you've taught me," she says, hoping the words encompass everything.

"May I never do your washing," Clotha says to her - blesses her, maybe - and picks up her basket and walks out.

Belle finishes polishing, finishes the work she'd set as her goal for the day, and puts her new cloak in her room. She makes Rumplestiltskin stew for dinner, and it's just like any other night. Rumplestiltskin eats dinner in the single chair on the table, and Belle ends up sharing with him while perched on the table, feet swinging absently as they talk about everything and nothing at all.

"Clotha declared her side of whatever the deal was complete, by the way," Belle says. "Gave me a cloak, too. I'll probably miss her."

"You could make friends with a rampaging hydra, couldn't you," Rumplestiltskin says. Belle can't tell if he's amused or irritated. "Well, it's all turned out much better than I expected."

Belle looks around the great hall. It's tidier, certainly, but Belle would never dub it clean. "Really?"

"Oh, definitely," Rumplestiltskin says. "I thought I'd be wiping what was left of your body out of carpets for a year. This is _much_ better."

Belle just smiles, since it's obvious Rumplestiltskin has no idea he's just admitted he likes her, or at least that he's glad she isn't dead. "Thank you for finding me a teacher," Belle says.

"Of course," Rumplestiltskin replies, smiling. "And now that you've gotten a laundry goddess' approval for housekeeping duties, you can clean the _entire_ castle."

Belle frowns. "I didn't know there was anything to clean beyond this wing."

"Nothing worthwhile, at least," Rumplestiltskin says. "Still, it'll keep you busy. You can explore. I'm fairly sure there's a library somewhere in the west wing, even if I haven't seen it for decades."

And explore Belle does, although it seems impossible to find the library. Doors don't always lead to the logical order of rooms, and corridors don't always stay in the same place. The wing they live in seems to be stabilized for the most part, although if Belle asks nicely it'll sometimes provide a shortcut from one doorway to another.

She shares her exploits with Rumplestiltskin, and occasionally he'll even tell her what a room or object is. Very rarely, he'll even go there with her to show how something is used - he seems to randomly collect contraptions that are generally useless but also fascinating. Belle's not found a single item in the entire castle that he doesn't have a story for. Whether or not they're actually true remains to be seen, of course.

Belle cleans. Belle has tea with Rumplestiltskin. Belle explores. Belle eats dinner with Rumplestiltskin. Sometimes she sits in on deals when the person actually makes the journey to the castle. Almost every night, they end up sitting by the grand fireplace (Rumplestiltskin in the single armchair, Belle with whatever chair he decides to conjure up for her that night - it ranges from enormous golden thrones to footstools and it's never the same seat twice) and talking. He has an infinite number of stories, and somehow seems as fascinated about what Belle thinks about them as Belle is about hearing them.

He leaves sometimes, and Belle tries very hard to pretend she doesn't miss him.

Rumplestiltskin's off doing heaven knows what far away from the Dark Castle when one of the doors takes her to a very dusty room. Inside, she finds clothes for a child.

-

All creatures follow their nature. Ogres kill. Maids clean. The midnight washerwoman is devoted to the clothes of the dead, and kills anyone who interferes. Imps are tricksters, and don't love. Belle knows, accepts, and believes this.

Except, as a strange dark woman on the road tells her, Rumplestiltskin isn't an imp. He's cursed. And deep down, beneath the imp, the man she's fallen in love with really is a man.

Belle throws off her cloak of dreams of wanderlust, and tries to bring him back to the surface.

But nothing rips apart dreams quite as fast and easily as refusing to believe in them.

As she leaves him with nothing but an empty heart and a chipped cup, Belle wonders what exactly Clotha had added into her basket.

-

For what seems like a long, long time, Belle is angry. And then she's bitter. And then she misses him so desperately it feels like someone sliced her apart with a rusty knife and the infection's setting in.

It's a full moon night when Belle finds herself stumbling across a small lonely pool of water, and sees something dark green and flutters of white out of the corner of her eye. When she glances around to find it, there's nothing but forest and moonlight. When she glances back at the pool, there's two pieces of fabric sitting just out of the water.

One is a large golden shawl of a fabric that Belle suspects is an impossible thread, light as spider silk and just as strong. The strands are woven into an elaborate design that makes her think of roses, somehow. The second is a small handkerchief, delicate and pale pink and so tightly embroidered that she feels like she's holding something precious and breakable instead of a beautiful handkerchief.

Belle realizes that neither has blood on it. She clutches them to her chest, threatened and abandoned, and smiles.

**Author's Note:**

> For fun info related to this fic: [Clotha](http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Bean_Nighe) [stuff](http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Les_Lavandi%C3%A8res), and [symbolic rumbelle shawl of symbolism](http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Golden_silk_orb-weaver#Interaction_with_humans).

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [Dirty Laundry [Podfic]](https://archiveofourown.org/works/2791691) by [lavendersiren](https://archiveofourown.org/users/lavendersiren/pseuds/lavendersiren)




End file.
